Читать книгу The Knights of Rhodes - Bo Giertz - Страница 12

The Hospital

There was a little Greek from Simi looking up at the ceiling in one of the small rooms in the hospital, the Religion’s great infirmary, “Our lords, the palace of the sick.” He was barely twenty years old and newly enlisted in the fleet. No sooner had he checked into the grand barracks than he caught fever, and seemed to have nothing but water, mucus, and blood pouring out of him. Doctor Apella had just diagnosed him as non-contagious. He laid him down next to an unfortunate comrade within four stone walls with a little window to the street and an open fireplace on the inner wall. There were some pieces of wood burning in the fireplace, and it felt good against the cool atmosphere.

He lay there hoping that brother Frans—who was always called Shooter-Frans— would look in. He spoke Greek, and there weren’t many who did here. Yes, Doctor Apella understood Greek, but not any of the priests, who normally came in during the morning rounds after the last mass in the grand hall. The little Greek longed to see a priest come, a true priest in a black coat and a high round coal black hat and a gold cross on his chest. A priest like Father Eusevio back home in Simi. He felt forlorn, depressed, and very, very worn out.

But Brother Frans never came. Today he was responsible for the cleaning in the grand hall. He stood there by a pillar at the far end of the long row that supported the high ceiling and gave a helpless look down the endless floor. The thirty-two beds with their canopies and drapes looked like a tent caravan camp along a street. Everything was strewn about the beautiful brick floor, the result of careless servants and thoughtless knights. It had been cold. The sick were coughing and had high fevers. Because it was winter, no boats went out and the knights had time to address their small ailments, rashes, boils, and colic troubles. The ward filled up fast. One could see what a struggle it had been to keep everything in order all fall. Every knight had the right to have an attendant with him. That was the worst. Their shirts and slippers, warm ruffles and nightcaps, prayer books and medicine bottles were all strewn about without the least respect for regulations. There in the middle of the hall the notice was posted that nothing should be found in the hall but that which the sick needed with them in bed. The rest was to be stowed neatly in the small storeroom made expressly for that purpose. These were found built into the wall behind every bed. This was how doctor Apella wanted to find it when we walked his rounds. He would begin those rounds in about half an hour.

Nothing suited Shooter-Frans worse than putting others to work. He gave his order as if he asked a favor. He looked sad when he had to tell someone that the chamber pot absolutely had to be emptied and that it was not good to put the food tray on it. It was taxing for him to get over his fears and go about stammering out his tactful reminders. As a rule he would promise to clean, fold, and wipe up so that it would all get done. Not until brother Bartolomeo came running and warned that the doctor was crossing the square would the work get into full swing. Yet, even when the doctor stood in the arched doorway at the far side of the colonnade, which ran around the garden, it still wasn’t all quite perfect in the hall. But they still hoped to dodge a reprimand for neglecting their work.

Doctor Apella now stood there on the cold blue winter day. He was short and stout with a round face, wide bent nose and protruding eyes, a little melancholic, sometimes anxious and most often observing as usual. He was a remarkable man, this Jewish doctor. He came here and opened a private practice like most of the others. He was efficient and received many thankful patients even among the knights. That was how he converted and was baptized. In baptism, he chose the name Giovanni Battista, a meaningful homage to the order of St. John and their patron saint.

The doctor had a complete escort with him as usual. There was the director, Dominus Infirmarius, and the surgeon, brother Gierolamo. Then there were two of the knights’ own accountants, who oversaw everything day and night and would approve the expenses by drawing some unreadable doodle under them in the books. Shooter-Frans, who could read passably, but could not write, suspected—for good reason—that a good share of the knights were not very familiar with the art of writing.

Doctor Apella greeted the personnel with usual nods in all directions. He couldn’t see the sick, because they were behind his heavy curtain. They needed this in the cold. The fireplace was only by the short wall and only the closest beds were glad for it. For the sake of the cold, all the window shutters were shut at the base of the ceiling. This made it dark, but not much warmer.

The doctor began his rounds at the southern end. There he had his own cause, the coughing and lung diseased, those who had kidney stones or rashes and those who only lost weight and faded away. He would stand with them all and let them talk, passing the time with them with his big friendly eyes. He would pry open all the bottles and jars and check to see how much they had consumed since his last visit. He altered prescriptions, checked their boils, and dressed their wounds. He was a remarkable healer, Doctor Apella, studied and book smart, even of the fine and cultured sort. He never touched a sore and apparently never picked up a knife. He left that to sawbones and surgeons, who worked with their hands and had come a long way if they ever came to be considered as hospital staff.

That is what Brother Gierolamo did. After many years as a simple blood letter, boil cutter, and leg healer, he got enough of a reputation to be a doctor when it came to treating wounds and bone fractures. So he came to the hospital and was enlisted as a serving brother. Soon he had a reputation that rivaled doctor Apella’s, but the doctor wasn’t at all jealous. He could stand and look on with great interest when Brother Gierolamo stuffed the bowels back in a belly that the Turks had made a hole in. Then he soothed them with warm oil, and made sure that there wasn’t any hole in them. Doctor Apella used to give good advice on the matter of the plasters that one would set. They could have long discussions over whether one should stitch it together at once, or just put on another draw plaster that kept the edges of the wounds together.

So the round gradually reached the other end of the hall. There brother Gierolamo took the lead. Here were the broken legs, boils, and leg sores that he tended to with a knife and ointment as well as his own homemade medicine. In the bed furthest down lay Amery, who was brother Gierolamo’s pride of the day. Brother Gierolamo had mastered an art that no one else here knew how to do. He could clear bowels so it went right through. Such happened often by pikes and scimitars in the waist or just a simple dagger during a fight in harbor. They were considered almost hopelessly lost. But one time Brother Gierolamo, who was from the Piedmont, had traveled north of the Alps. He swore that he would never do it again because while he was there he only encountered sour weather, sour cabbage, sour oil, and sour wines. But a good thing happened to him: the art of repairing bowels. He had learned it from brother Henrik, an old wound healer, who served in the German Order. He had shown him how to cut away the damaged bit, force in a little silver tube approximately three quarters of an inch in through the cut, and with folded in edges, sew together both intestine ends over it and bind them fast. He first tried the art on a serving brother who was wounded in the abdomen when he tried to board a pirate ship. All were grieved for his sake, because he was an unusually capable man. All were just as glad when he was pieced back together. It was pretty hard, because he was a strong brother. It was hard to hold him even after giving him two doses of opium under the nose. He still lived in the greatest of good health and maintained that he could feel the silver ring if he fasted for a while and pressed his hands under his navel. Since then Brother Gierolamo kept a little store of such silver rings among his instruments and he had accomplished the same feat many times. Many suffered heartburn after eating, the wicked fever that nothing could stop, as a side effect. But some escaped.

The prospects looked good for Brother Amery. He felt cool and good today and said that he was hungry. The doctor and Brother Gierolamo were agreed, though, that he ought to continue to fast longer if he valued his life. When he persisted asking, the doctor became angry and said that he who presumed to give him so much as a breadcrumb would end up in the tower.

They finished up in the great hall and now came all the smaller halls, which were in a row on the upper floor around the great courtyard. Each of these smaller halls had doors opening up out onto the colonnade. The people in these halls were from the boats in the harbor, from the city, and the villages in the countryside. They were somewhat sorted out according to their ailments. There was a room for childbearing women and another for those who had scabies and rashes. The room furthest away in the corner was the dysentery room. The doctor went in there too, but he didn’t let anyone but brother Frans come with him. He looked in on the little Greek and shook his head. Then he looked at the other one, and said that he could drink red wine diluted with two parts warm water. Then he ordered that the latrine bucket be filled with lime at least one hour before it was emptied.

Shooter-Frans stood and looked at the little Greek, who was not much more than a little boy. He lay there red from fever with a damp film over the eyes. Brother Frans had seen many dysentery patients before and could normally predict what would happen. This one had about eight hours left, maybe twelve. He would have gladly stayed with him, but the doctor went and he had to follow.

After the rounds were completed, there was inventory. They changed the bed linen often in the hospital. The Religion prided itself on keeping the hospital clean to the great amazement of many visitors. But this demanded constant supervision of the stores. Brother Frans counted, piled, folded, recorded the count, and started again. He could not stop thinking about the little Greek. Time passed, and now he had nothing left to do. All alone, he had come from the islands. Do you think they knew at all at home that he was sick?

Finally, he finished the first part of the inventory. He had counted through the quilts, sheets, mattresses, bed curtains, tin mugs, feather pillows, and delousing powder. It was almost dinnertime. Shooter-Frans passed by to look in on the dysentery room. It was as he expected. The little Greek was even worse. He walked over and stood by the furnace like bed.

“Can I help you drink something?”

The little guy nodded.

“Is there anything else you want?”

The little one looked up, helpless. He tried to wet his lips with his tongue.

“A father,” he said.

“You want a priest? Didn’t you receive the sacrament this morning?”

The little one shook his head. He wanted something else.

“A father,” he said. “One who can speak Greek like you.”

Shooter-Frans thought. It was difficult. Father Athanasius was gone away. The other chaplains were all Frenchmen and Italians. It used to not mean anything. They could still all give absolutions, the sacrament, and extreme unction.

He brooded. The little guy looked at him pleadingly.

“A father, a real one. Like home . . . ”

Shooter-Frans nodded.

“I’ll try.”

He went out through the archway, down the wide stairs, out through the door and stood there perplexed. So he started down toward the city. Was this really important? What if the chaplains got mad? But then he remembered the boy had dysentery. That was enough evil. It was clear that they should go to those who had dysentery too just as they went to those who had pocks or the plague. But they would still be glad to escape having to do it.

He went at random to the Greek Cathedral; he could always meet someone there. But it was empty in there. There were only a few women praying before an icon of Hagios Fanurios. But just then a real priest came down the lateral isle. Shooter-Frans limped along and stammered some words, just as the priest would have disappeared behind the iconostasis. When he heard the Frank speak Greek like a native, he was friendly at last and listened a little longer. Yes—he would come. So he gathered up his things and followed. It turned out that he really should have been going to a baptism, but a dying man needed to come first. Shooter-Frans was starting to feel a little anxious. What if he had misdiagnosed the little Greek? Was it really so urgent?

But the Greek priest did not seem to be mad about anything. He had small shoulders and sad eyes. His name was Gennaios, he said and that he too was from the islands. He had heard of the sick boy. The little Shooter-Frans now began to speak and chat about himself.

When they got there, the priest went into the dysentery room right away and shut himself in. Shooter-Frans went away to the cafeteria, but it was already empty. He learned that the infirmary asked about him and was now looking for him. It was a very painful examination. Where had he been? What had he done in the city? Why didn’t he go to dinner? Who was the priest he took into the Hospitallers’ territory? Was it really one of the Catholic Greeks that recognized the Pope and not one of the schismatics? Shooter-Frans stammered, bowed, turned red, and stared helplessly before him, unhappy because he always did everything wrong. Then he finally got the order to fetch the Greek priest.

That troubled him too. He did not want to disturb the priest, but Father Gennaios stayed in there a long time. But when he finally came out, Shooter-Frans was comforted, knowing that the priest was thankful for being called. He had been needed in there, he said. Then he went to see the infirmary, and they spoke for an hour, at first very loudly then calmly. When the Greek went on his way, the infirmary looked very respectful. He didn’t say anything else about the matter to Shooter-Frans.

In the evening, the little Greek died. In its own way, this comforted brother Frans too. At least, he hadn’t called the priest unnecessarily.